One of Those Mornings

It has been just over three years since Todd Stoops died following an automobile accident. I was sitting at Starbucks on the evening of February 21, 2003 when I got the call. Ashley was one of the first students to call me. The calls kept coming that evening. Students wanted to know how I was doing, but I was more concerned about them. It had been the hardest weeks in many of their young lives, and honestly it was one of the toughest weeks that I had ever endured. I wasn't good with showing my emotion to others, and I definitely wasn't comfortable with tears, but more than that I didn't want Todd to be gone.

I still think of Todd often, especially when I get into a car and lazily choose not to fasten my seat belt. Thank goodness Judy the Jeep makes me, or else she beeps incessantly. I think of his wonderful life and the senseless loss and I think of what Todd's mother told us when we asked what we could do to help: Tell the kids to wear their seatbelts, she said.

I don't hear from my students often, it's always nice when I do. Honestly, sometimes I just pretend that Todd is gone at college, busily pursuing his life like the others and that I'll hear from him or about him someday. Then there are other times when I am reminded that he is gone. This morning is one of those mornings...

The following column appeared in the SPARK, the award-winning Lakota East High School newsmagazine, a few weeks following his death. It was an honor to be asked to write this:

Students come and go from my classroom quite frequently, but no one has ever left quite like Todd Stoops.

The first day he entered my room he was merely a name on a list of 30 others in my English 111 class, but he didn’t stay just a name for long. In a matter of days I knew him quite well and would often say his name when he wandered in late, talked to his buddy Evan while I was teaching, or tried to get off easy on an assignment.

Those were not the only reasons that I quickly became familiar with the name Todd Stoops. I knew that I could look to him to add to a classroom lecture, always perfectly complementing my discussion. I found that if I needed a favor, Todd was always willing to help and was someone in whom I could trust.

As I got to know him better, one of my favorite things about him was that if I needed a little comic relief, I could always count on Todd for a good laugh. He could always take an occasional jab as much as I could handle a good bald joke.

It didn’t take me long to figure that it was never Todd’s style to be just an acquaintance to others. There was something magnetic about him that rapidly drew others to his presence. I was sure of this as I watched hundreds of friends and loved ones grieve over his sudden death. It was amazing to see that someone so young had become a part of so many lives.

Of course a person couldn’t help but like Todd. I found myself quickly drawn to him as I got to know him better. It is not often that teachers are able to build a friendship with a student; in fact it doesn’t happen enough. While it is something we teachers often strive for, there is never enough time to truly allow it to happen. In hindsight I am very thankful that I took some time from my planning and grading to invest in Todd.

This year he became a member of the yearbook staff and also served as my student aide. While this meant twice as many bald jokes a day, it also gave me the opportunity to spend more time with him. I learned a lot from our interactions. He taught me how to guess a person’s age, weight, or birthday and even the tricks of sorting fish from the part-time jobs he held. He introduced me to the bands Incubus, Coldplay, and Fuel. He made me a CD of their music and titled it “McGarvey’s Mega Mix.” He would often inform me of what was and wasn’t cool to do, and at times he would even share things with me that I didn’t want to know. He would just laugh at me as I shook my head at him.

Then there were the more important things I learned from Todd. He taught me to laugh more often and to strive to have fun with the things you do, like the time I caught him teaching break dance moves to his fellow yearbook staffers at deadline time. I now find myself occasionally being silly when I shouldn’t. From day to day I try a little bit harder to reach out to my students, just as I did with Todd. Sometimes we would share our problems with one another and believe it or not, it was nice to have a student to lean on. Through Todd’s tragic death I have thought about my own mortality, just as many students said they now consider theirs. It is so important to appreciate each and every day we are given. But one of the biggest lessons I learned from Todd happened the morning after I heard about his accident. I buckled my seat belt, which is something that I never did on a regular basis and I haven’t stopped doing it since.

Todd Stoop’s presence is greatly missed in both my classroom and my life. I don’t think he had any aspirations of becoming an educator, but looking back I learned a lot from him. It was an honor to have him as such a great teacher.

The Graveyard Game

This is a piece I wrote for a 24 hour short story contest sponsored by Writer’s Weekly in October .

I actually won something in this contest...a door prize, drawn at random, but hey....it's something!


A Red Pontiac swerved into the cemetery, nearly toppling one of the marble pillars holding the sign which read Beekman's Grove Memorial Garden. It came to an abrupt stop throwing a slushy mix of dirt and snow onto assorted headstones in the front row.
Jolene emerged from the vehicle leaving the door open and engine running. She headed up the hill to Soldier's Circle.
Seconds later another car entered the cemetery in the same fashion as Jolene, followed by a Dodge truck. Veins of muddy tire tracks stretched from the main gate to haphazard parking spots on the dirt road.
"Jolene, you ran the stop light on Morgan Street, you cheatin' bitch!" Bobby, who possessed a bellow that could shake the bark from trees, sent his voice toward his sister with javelin-like delivery. He could see her running methodically on the hilltop.
Marianne was helped from the truck by her husband, Duane. She dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up tissue. "Before I do this, I need to see Mama," she said with an unsteady quiver in her voice.
It had only been three days since Darlene Harrell had been interred into the hallowed ground where she spent the last Monday of every May. Honoring the dead on Memorial Day was important. She'd arrive at sunrise with the trunk full of assorted flowers which she arranged the night before. One-by-one she’d visit each of her ancestors, say a short prayer, and leave a small token of love.
An expert on her family's genealogy, Darlene knew where each of her kin was buried. Her yearly routine ended just in time for the Memorial Day service at the Ring of Eternity, a small park inside the cemetery. Jolene, Bobby, and Marianne would grow restless after an hour, insensitive to the reverie of the day, and rebel by annoying their mother.
On Memorial Day, 1972, when Bobby, the oldest, was 9, Darlene invented the Graveyard Game after Bobby and Jolene tied Marianne to the flagpole. "The first one of you to locate your cousin, Stanley Arndt's grave and tell me how old he was when he died will win a prize."
"What's the prize, Mama?" Asked Jolene, engaged along with her siblings, huddling tightly around their mother.
"A shiny 50-cent piece," she said as she pulled it from the bottom of her purse and held it before them. Darlene beamed as her children scattered like mice.
Bobby was the first winner. It took him 45 minutes, reporting that Stanley was 43 when he died. Darlene, alerted to Bobby's discovery by a triumphant "yahoo," came in second. Her answer was a number off, since she couldn't perform subtraction in her head.
The years progressed and the stakes grew higher, sending the Harrells on a yearly frantic search across the cemetery. They played until Bobby turned 17, leaving their game at a three-way tie. The Harrell children had lost interest in the game and complained that they were too old to accompany their mother anymore. "I'm disappointed in all of you," she scolded. "Someday you'll find out how important this day really is."
Attorney Hiram Jenkins issued Darlene's final challenge in a letter offering a bequeath of $5,000 to the one who could return first with the age of Uncle Martin Johns at the time of his death. Darlene had convinced Hiram that while the challenge was cruel, it was necessary. "Those three have fought all their lives and they will continue to fight. I don't have much, but one of my children will get it all."
The pristine snow on the hill was marred only by the bright orange and red leaves that had fallen in the night wind. The graveyard was more beautiful than Jolene had ever seen it, but she couldn't dwell on the beauty around her, however, because she had only moments to decipher the etchings on the gravestone once she found it. She gave a quick glance to check on her siblings. Bobby was circling the graves down the hill while Marianne was laying on top of her mother's grave, digging her fingers into the dirt. On her second pass down the last row she saw the name "Martin" partially covered by snow. Her heart started racing. She ran to the stone and made a swipe through the white covering revealing "Johns." Below it were the dates May 4, 1862-September 25, 1927. Jolene immediately started subtracting. "Sixty-six," she said, "no, no, sixty-five, or is it sixty-four. Oh hell!"
She knew any sudden movements would alert them, so she sprinted toward her car, calculating 1927 minus 1862 in her head. She would check her math on her checkbook calculator while driving to Jenkin's office. She pulled off, throwing a fresh mixture of slush onto another grouping of headstones. In her rearview mirror she saw Bobby running toward Soldier's Circle.
Bobby followed his sister's frantic footsteps in the snow to where they ended. "That one's easy Mama. Sixty-five." Bobby let out jubilant "yahoo," and ran down the hill toward his car. He was sure he'd be the winner, since he had taken a minute from his search to check the gas gauge on Jolene's idling car which was teetering below "E."
Bobby's exuberant cry was disturbing to the peaceful surroundings. Birds flew from the trees, a flock of deer moved deeper into the woods and a chunk of frozen snow fell from a piece of granite, revealing the inscription in its entirety: Martin Johnson.
"Well hon, I guess that about does it," said Duane, kneeling next to his wife, pulling her up from a messy mixture of flowers, snow, and mud. "We better get going."
Marianne dabbed at her cheek with the same tattered tissue. "I didn't care about the money anyway. I want my Mama." Just then, through a blurry mixture of tears she saw it, sitting directly behind her mother's grave: Martin Johns, 1900-1960. "Sixty," she screamed, "Thank you Mama, Sixty!"

Snubbing the Muse

This piece originally appeared on the Story Studio Chicago blog, Cooler by the Lake, on October 27, 2005. Thanks, Jill!

A friend of mine checked in on my work with a current writing project. I had been toiling over it for months, deciding where to go with the story, wading through stacks of comments from workshops, and changing to a first person narrator to heighten the emotion. My friend has been quite the cheerleader for this project, so after I whined and cried a little about the rigors of getting it finished for a deadline, she cheerily sent me an email with the greeting: Good luck tonight. May the muse be with you.

I was immediately overwhelmed! She had wished a muse upon me. I now had no excuse but to sit down and finish my story.

Later that evening, burdened by my muse, I turned on my laptop. I was ready to ride my plot line all the way down the arc with my muse snuggling closely beside me, whispering sweet words of inspiration in my ear. But first, out of habit, I pulled up the Internet for a quick check of the news (insert comments here about looking at the Internet during writing time). The headline: U.S. Military Deaths in Iraq Reach 2,000. I turned to my muse and said, “Ride’s over. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Well, I never!” she replied and hastily got up and slammed the door.

Michael, the main character of my story, is a marine fighting the war in Iraq. His concerns are of when he might grab his next smoke and what to do about the Iraqi man who wants to share a cigarette with him. But in light of 2,000 deaths is this really Michael’s story? I have a totally different direction in which to go, with emotion, and an ending that ties it all together. I even had a muse! But each time I tried to write the next scene in which Michael talks with a comrade, I picture him and his friend continually looking around in fear, worried about becoming number 2001.

My writing group would probably tell me that I was “overparenting” Michael, a term from Charles Baxter that we have been throwing around lately in relation to a writer’s ability to understand their character too well and too quickly. Maybe Michael isn’t as concerned about the number 2,001 as I am.

My story has a happy ending. My muse was waiting outside my building for me this morning. We walked to work and talked some of this over. I even treated to Starbucks to make amends. We decided that Michael still has a story, whether or not it involves the latest headline. I have been sidetracked temporarily, but I have some overparenting of myself to do. Once I am able to put this in perspective I will pick up my laptop, Michael will pick up his cigarette, and his story will go on.

Peeve with Steve

In the most recent issue of Entertainment Weekly (October 29, 2004), writer Stephen King lists some of his biggest pet peeves of 2004. I can honestly concur with many of King’s annoyances like Britney Spears, The Donald, and ads before theatrical movies. I find it quite enlightening that Mr. King and I are bothered by some of the same disturbances. There is something kinda neat about thinking like a well-known and successful author.

In his article Steve (I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I call him that) invites his readers to lighten their “psychic load” by speaking of their own annoyances. Feeling rather peeved and up to the challenge, I therefore issue my own list of Pet Peeves of 2004.

• Lip Synching Of course I am jumping on the bandwagon and commenting on the incident involving Ashlee Simpson this past weekend on SNL, but give me a break. It is bad enough that she rides on her sister’s coat tails and gets a recording contract, that she gets her own boring show on MTV, that she just recently berated fellow singers for the act of lip synching, and finally that her Dad tried to excuse the incident by saying that she had acid reflux. If people are paying millions of dollars (whether it be in advertising or concert tickets) to watch an artist sing, they should do just that…sing. It’s not that difficult. If we wanted to listen to the track on the CD, we can save a lot of money by doing that at home. Uh oh, now I think I have acid reflux.
• Television Copy Cats Say a television network is lucky enough to produce a hit, why is it within months there are at least 2 to 3 knock-offs of practically the same thing? Can you say originality? The reasons why shows like Desperate Housewives, Wife Swap, and The Apprentice are so popular is because someone, somewhere thought up a new idea and a way to make it work, thus the viewers watch it because it is a fresh idea and something not seen before. While some of the ideas may be a little inane, it works. There is already buzz about studios trying to duplicate the hits so far this season. Too bad we’ve come to rely on duplicating what is already bad and making it even worse.
• The Christmas Rush in September There is now a fine and blurry line as to when the once sacred holiday of Christmas begins and when it ends. Call me old fashioned, but when I was a kid we never started preparing for a new holiday until the one preceding it ended. Stores have put up their decorated trees, Marketers have already begun pushing the date, and yes, I have already heard Christmas Carols. I enjoy the fun and frivolity of carving a pumpkin and seeing trick or treaters. I love sitting down with those I know and love and having a hearty meal and giving thanks. I have to admit that I feel like a cheating husband for acknowledging holidays other than Christmas. Let’s put Christmas back in the month in which it belongs. And don’t get me started on those people who leave their Christmas lights up year round…
• Oprah Giving Stuff Away I do admire and have a great deal of respect for Oprah Winfrey, but lately it seems like her show has become The Price is Right. At least once a week hordes of women begin screaming boisterously as they are awarded handfuls of fabulous cash and prizes. Sure I am jealous, I would love to go to the Oprah show and I love free stuff. It was all good and fun during her annual “favorite things” show, but now the idea of getting a freebie on the show has become almost trite and expected. The kind and benevolent gestures for those who deserve it continue to encourage me, but isn’t the idea to watch the show and feel enlightened, not be inundated with product placements. p.s. Oprah-Give me a call if you ever get your hands on a lifetime supply of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.
• Waffling I have to admit that I am a true Libra and occasionally I take a little extra time in making a decision, or sometimes, I even change my mind after I have thought about something. While it is a little bothersome to those around me, I never thought it was a downright sin until George W. Bush began accusing John Kerry of it time after time after time. It is okay to change your mind, especially in this day and age where information is constantly being presented to you every time you turn around. It keeps the mind alert and healthy to process information and make sound decisions, and even to question those decisions. Now repeat after me…it’s okay to waffle, it’s okay to waffle…
• Homophobia Welcome to the year 2004 and believe it or not we are in a day and age where there are many different ways to love one another. Men love women, women love men, and yes there are even men out there who love other men and women who love other women. SO DEAL WITH IT! Making fun of others, espousing closed-minded ideas, and even physically abusing one another will not make it go away. If being gay is not your thing, that’s okay.
• Polls Reason #5,027 that I will be glad to see November 2 come and go.

So, Steve, thanks for the inspiration and giving me the opportunity to rant and rave with your blessings. If you,the reader, felt that I left something off that particularly irks you and that needs to be mentioned, please feel free to add it to the list.

Ahh, I feel much better now.

Still Wondering About Six Feet Under

As HBO’s Six Feet Under closed the lid on its fourth season viewers definitely got some of the answers that they have long been waiting for. But now that burning questions have finally been addressed, at the last minute nonetheless, fans are suddenly burdened with one more burning question: now what?

This season Six Feet Under has slowly returned to the fine story lines, quirky twists, and stellar performances that season one had to offer. Once again it became a painstaking wait for Sunday night to approach to find out what would happen next to the Fisher clan and the other unfortunate souls around them. It felt good to laugh out loud again at the scripts and to be left in absolute wonderment at what the characters said and the choices they made. This was definitely the season that fans had been longing to see.

One of the biggest offerings of the season finale was answers in relation to the death of Lisa, Nate’s wife who disappeared at the end of season three. Peter Krause played the role of widower to the heart-breaking hilt as he trudged through such hardships as single parenthood, intrusive in-laws, and a return to the dating scene. This journey offered Krause the opportunity to take Nate in a totally new and unexpected direction. Nate’s role of father, to his daughter Maya, placed him in an interesting predicament as he was forced to face each of his obstacles head-on. He was no longer allowed to ignore his problems, or face them with reckless abandon, as in the past. It was this journey that also led to the much-anticipated reunion with ex-girlfriend, Brenda, finely portrayed by Rachel Griffiths. Viewers can only hope that Nate’s proposal to Brenda at the end of the episode will allow him to put Lisa’s memory, and the role of widower, to rest and move on to even more interesting storylines.

Nate’s brother, David, who was also dealt his share of pain and suffering in one of the season’s strongest episodes, was given the opportunity to bury some of his hardships in Sunday’s season finale. Earlier in the year, Episode 44, “That’s My Dog” was a surprise, and outrage, to some viewers as they witnessed the abduction and torture of David, already one of the show’s most tortured characters. David’s attack in a random carjacking gave his portrayer, Michael C. Hall, the chance to develop many of David’s under-developed characteristics. While in many instances he was still seen as the whiny, sniveling victim, David emerged a stronger person who was able to fight back against many of his bullies. The pain that David endured also offered him the opportunity to set boundaries and explore his relationship with his partner, Keith, whose relationship was in desperate need of defining. While David was unable to find comfort within himself, he was offered solace in heartwarming scenes throughout the season with his sister, Claire, Nate and even his dearly departed father, who made a cameo in the season finale to reassure his son that everything was going to be alright.

While season four offered the men of the Fisher family the opportunity for some deep soul-searching, it was apparent in Sunday’s episode that the Fisher women still have explorations of their own psyches to perform. In one of the most irritating storylines of the season, Ruth continued in her struggle to understand her husband, George, but finally was given some insights into his psychosis. Too bad these answers hadn’t come many episodes ago, so George could be hauled off in a straightjacket and Ruth, and her portrayer, Frances Conroy, can move on with her life and more interesting pursuits. As Claire took the opportunity to explore her sexuality, her art career, and her first orgasm this season, it was entertaining to finally witness her growth and maturity. There is great promise for actress Lauren Ambrose to continue with her outstanding performance as Claire deals with her dependence on drugs, enters into a relationship with Billy Chenowith, finds success as an artist, and even maintains the ability to connect and communicate with her family. Claire still remains the show’s most unpredictable and often, most entertaining character.

The writers and producers of Six Feet Under have much work to do in their follow-up to season four. It’s okay that they still keep viewers guessing, as long as every member of the Fisher household doesn’t end up a casualty of their own devices, as in season three. While many times the writers dilly-dallied too long in storylines this season, without giving us instantaneous results, they did give us strong scripts, vivid characterization, and tense, unexpected moments, which the show is best known for. While viewers weren’t given every answer they were looking for in the season finale, they were given enough to keep them watching, and guessing come season five.

Big Break

So this is it…my big break. If you find yourself wondering what that actually means, don’t worry so do I.
Some say that Tom Cruise’s big break came with Risky Business, David Letterman got his delivering the local weather in Indiana, and Thomas Jefferson became a big shot after penning the “Declaration of Independence”. I am unsure if the aforementioned fellows were led down the path to fame and fortune from the time and hard work they poured into the “little” things they did, or if they were just in the right place at the right time.
I recently made my big break. After 7 years of teaching English in suburban high schools in Ohio, I up and quit and relocated to Chicago. It was not an easy decision to leave my teaching career. On a daily basis I found teaching a frustration, a distraction to what it was that I most wanted to do with my life: write. But I have to admit, there are those things that I miss. As the middle of August approaches and school years around the nation begin, I can’t help to feel that little ache in my heart for preparing my classroom, meeting students on the first day of school, and pulling out my lesson plans for The Crucible; an introduction to the Puritans in my American Lit class. On the other hand there are those things I will not miss: the book bag weighed down daily with papers to grade or lessons to create, the apathy of certain students who often seem to suck the life out of the most exciting of lesson plans, and the early, early mornings or the late, late evenings.
While I left many people shaking their heads, in the wake of my decision, I also left many adoring fans ready to read anything that I write, which is quite an exciting premise and a great launch for my big break. While I want to say “Give me a couple of months” to them, I find myself thinking ‘this is going to take some time’. I left with promises of grandeur and now I wished I would have snuck off quietly, with my plans veiled in secrecy. Chicago hasn’t quite welcomed me with open arms and I find myself in a barrage of self doubt about myself both personally and professionally.
The good news is that I have come to find that this is just a part of the process. The fears and the self doubt are all a part of the risk it takes to put yourself out there in the wide open. It was safe in my classroom, on most days. It isn’t as safe out here. But I am sure that Tom doubted the way he should have delivered a line, Dave second-guessed a forecast of showers, and yes, even Mr. Jefferson went through numerous rewrites before getting it right.
So this is my big break, no promises on its size quite yet. It’s a risky business. I predict some cloudy days ahead, but there’s something nice about declaring your independence. This is my beginning, my putting myself out there, my chance at something. While I know that it will take some time, I am ready to go through what it takes to achieve something big.

This is one of my favorite sites in Chicago. It was unveiled shortly after I arrived here. I kinda like to think it was made just for me. "Cloud Gate" is one of the biggest attractions at Millenium Park, which was opened in July.

Look at me! My reflection from "Cloud Gate".